


Six Days

by Fiona_Crescent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Gladiators, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 10:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiona_Crescent/pseuds/Fiona_Crescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Set in Ancient Rome, Dean and Castiel are thrust into an impossible situation, from which only one can make it out alive. (Destiel, a story in six parts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idontlikesand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontlikesand/gifts).



_"Families are the compass that guide us. They are the inspiration to reach great heights, and our comfort when we occasionally falter."_

-Brad Henry

 

 

_Day One:_

 

Another fight was over, and the final verdict was to be cast. Dean Winchester had his boot planted firmly on the neck of his vanquished opponent; underfoot he could feel the man’s shallow, ragged breathing as his body fought to live. Dean’s knife was ready, and he waited for the _pollice verso_. Would this man be allowed to fight again, or would the gods finally grant him the peace he craved?

 

His oppressor, his puppet master, stood up from his seat and stretched his arm out in front of him, his fist closed. The other members of the audience screamed their verdicts in a last-minute attempt to change his mind. There was a smile on his face as he listened to their pleas for mercy, or their roars as they thirsted for blood. Slowly, he extended his thumb and pointed it down.

 

Dean looked back at his opponent. The man stared at him, his eyes betraying no emotion. They were blue, like Sam’s eyes, but now was not the time to be thinking about that. Dean brought the knife down swiftly, then pulled it out when the deed was done. He knelt beside the man and took a moment to bow his head and pray for him in silence. When finished he threw his blood stained knife on the ground and walked out of the arena.

 

* * *

 

This was Dean Winchester’s life. His days were spent behind high walls, eating enough food to keep him strong, fighting to stay alive so that he could go on living behind those high walls and steel gates. Each day would meld into the next, until the weeks and months he had spent in this prison came together in an incomprehensible blur. The only changes to this scenery were the faces that came and went, some scared, some angry, all doomed. Dean never cared to get to know them; their anonymity protected him from nightmares after the kills. It worked; the ghosts of the dead never lingered in this place.

 

Of the original group that had been brought in over eight months ago, Dean was the only one left. At the time they had been over sixty-strong, but that had soon changed as funeral games were held, honoured guests greeted and entertained, or punishments doled out to. One by one they had fallen, and the men who were Dean’s own countrymen, his own blood, had all journeyed on to the next adventure, leaving him alive and alone.

 

Well, not alone. There was one, the only person with whom he had ever struck up a friendship, and an unlikely one at that. Castiel, a wandering mercenary and nomad, had come to Rome about two months after Dean, having been captured in a town outside Carthage. The two had, over time, earned each other’s respect, and had on more than one occasion saved each other’s life in the arena. Dean knew that he would not be standing here breathing if it had not been for his friend, and he was eternally grateful for the one and only support he had in this godforsaken place.

 

Castiel was waiting for Dean when he returned from the Coliseum. He was sitting like he always was, perched at the edge of the stone wall inside the common area of the barracks in which they were house. He stared straight ahead, his hands in his lap, the picture of patience. Dean always wondered how he did that; when their positions were reversed he usually took to pacing the length and breadth of the place. Other slaves did not get to watch the games; news of fellow comrades’ deaths and survival filtered down slowly. Sometimes, he would hear the results first through word of mouth, but mostly he’d only know the outcome of respective matches when the deceased’s possessions were being cleared out to be bartered. As Dean entered the common area, Castiel looked towards him. His eyes flickered briefly with a hint of relief, and he stood up and joined his friend. Together they walked through the barracks towards their sleeping quarters.

 

“I prepared a basin of water for you to wash yourself,” Castiel said. “You’ve still got a lot of blood on your face.”

 

“Thanks, Cas.”

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

“Just a scratch or two.”

 

“How was the fight?”

 

“Same as always.”

 

“You killed.” It was a statement, not a question. “I’m sorry.”

 

Dean didn’t know how Castiel always knew if he had killed or not. There were probably a number of factors, maybe a hitch in his voice, or a slight difference in how he walked. Whatever it was, Castiel could tell straight away, and had never been wrong in his assumptions.

 

“Well, it is what it is I guess,” Dean said.

 

“I liked Bobby. He was a good soldier.”

 

“Yeah. He was.”

 

Silence fell between them as they walked the rest of the way, but it was not an uncomfortable one. Sooner or later, every slave in this place fought someone they knew, or had been friends with. No one resented another for a kill. Slaves lived on borrowed time, and though he had dealt the final blow today, they had all been pronounced dead the moment they had been brought to this wretched prison. Castiel’s words were said not out of judgement for Dean’s actions, but out of respect for his fallen brother.

 

“So, what’s happened since I’ve been away?” Dean asked once they had reached their sleeping quarters. Castiel sat on his cot while Dean splashed water on his face, cleaning off the blood that would never quite wash away completely.

 

“There’s talk of something big,” Castiel said.

 

“Talk?”

 

“Well, just whispers at the moment, but it sounds legitimate.”

 

“What are we looking at?”

 

“A festival.”

 

Dean stopped washing his face and looked at his friend, his mouth set in a thin line. Festivals were never cause for celebration. “You mean an annihilation.”

 

Castiel nodded, his face equally grim. “Apparently there’s a new consignment of slaves coming in who have just finished their training.”

 

“From where?”

 

“I don’t know. Probably Gaul. They’ll probably have picked up some wanderers on the ”

 

“And because of the overcrowding-”

 

“There’s a need to thin the herd, yes.”

 

“Shit.” Dean rubbed his face hard to get the rest of the blood off, the poured the rest of the water out the window where it would soon evaporate. He sat down on the edge of his cot. Castiel and Dean had been designated the ones opposite each other, and often they would sit like this, heads bowed and close together, to discuss strategy before games, or about news of outside events. This was the first time they had ever had to talk about a festival.

 

“They’ll want to kill off a lot of them straight away, at least that’s what happened when I came from Etruria,” Dean said. “It flushed out the weak from the get-go and well as demanding compliance for the stronger slaves. It won’t be in the Emperor’s interest to keep survivors. If we both are chosen in the lottery for the one-on-one matches then…”

 

There was an apprehensive and tense air between them when Dean trailed off; neither wanted to talk more than they had to about the games, because both knew what it meant. Regardless, in a place where hope had long escaped, they continued.

 

“It’s probably going to be seeded,” Castiel said in a low voice. “We’d be at opposite ends of the tournament.”

 

“Is that supposed to make everything better? Not that it matters anyway.”

 

“Of course it matters.”

 

“No, Cas, it doesn’t. The outcome is the same. We sure as hell ain’t getting out of this one.”

 

“Dean.” Castiel put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. He looked up, his attention fixed and focused at the touch.

 

“Dean,” he said again. “This one’s different.”

 

“Killing is killing, Cas, let’s not beat around the bush here.”

 

“Not if the price is freedom.”

 

“Wait, what?”

 

“The single matches. One of us could walk free. The Emperor is using it as a pardon to the winning slave for being an enemy of Rome. If you win, you could go home.”

 

“We get to walk away, simple as that.” It was hard not to note the sarcasm in his voice, but Castiel ignored it.

 

“Think of it as incentive to get past the first round. We can worry about the rest later, that is, if even happens at all. We could still be picked for the group events.”

 

Dean laughed, partly with relief, partly in disbelief. He pulled his friend up and gave him a hug. “Cas, that is the best news I’ve heard all day. One of us is getting out, man. I mean, that’s huge!”

 

Castiel looked him up and down, frowning at the large bruise on his leg and the small cuts on his arm. “Are your injuries going to cause you any trouble?”

 

“No, no, it’s fine. We both know I’ve had worse.”

 

“Still, you look tired; you should rest. It’s important to recover your strength. I’ll make sure to bring you some food if you sleep through dinner.”

 

“Alright, thanks Cas,” he said. Usually, Dean would have argued, but the prospect of sleep did sound appealing. He put his head down and soon he was in a deep slumber, one in which no nightmares resided.


End file.
